With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Team Player
“Emoni, can you blanch the asparagus and season it?” Richard calls from where he’s chopping onions. Amanda is absent today and I’ve been standing back less and helping out more. It’s hard to keep my hands from just doing, but Richard makes sure we stay on track, following the recipe down to the last half teaspoon.
I set the pot of water to boil and slice through the asparagus the way the recipe says.
Over his shoulder, Richard calls out the next instruction. “Oh, and the orzo, that needs to get going.”
Again, I nod, and get the necessary ingredients from the pantry. Richard is a heavyset kid who wears an oversized jacket and has the cutest little mole over his lip. I think his family is Polish, but Richard is straight Philly, from his haircut to his sneakers. We work down to the wire with him calling instructions and me trying to ensure I don’t do anything I’m not supposed to. Today is a testing day, which means that anything we place in front of Chef will be graded, plus we need to be able to answer questions about each of our dishes. Richard and Amanda always do well and I don’t want to mess up their track record. I measure the necessary salt and grind the fresh peppercorn, and squeeze only so much lemon. The garnish is the exact amount of thyme called for.
Across the room, Malachi has finished plating and is cleaning up his station, rapping underneath his breath. Leslie swings her hips and mimes being in front of a microphone. I look away from them, and Richard and I approach Chef. He turns the dish in several circles before sticking his fork in, closing his eyes.
“Asparagus is good, orzo is right. Skirt steak is right.” He opens his eyes. “The dish needs a little more salt, but otherwise, well done. I knew you could pull it off.” And although he is talking to Richard and me, I have a feeling the comment was for me.
Chef looks at me. “What’s the correct ratio of water to orzo?”
I answer him. He asks Richard a question about the temperature to cook a steak medium rare.
Another group stands behind us waiting to approach Chef, and I try to bite back the words bubbling in my mouth, but like a covered pot of boiling water, they spill over. “You need to change your measurement.”
Chef looks up from his grading. “Excuse me?”
I point to the recipe. “Your measurement of salt in the recipe, we followed it exactly. So if the dish needs more salt, you need to change your measurement.”
He raises an eyebrow and as we walk to our station, Richard elbows me in the ribs. “Seriously, Emoni? You couldn’t just let it go?”
I don’t answer. Call me salty.